It's All About Piano Festival - film about Alexandre Tharaud and recital by Joanna MacGregor, 18 March 2016

Images: Mariona Vilaros

Ciné Lumière, Institut Français

Ligeti – Musica ricercata, nos 1-6

Satie – Gnossiennes nos 1, 3, 5
Satie – Sports et divertissements
Liszt – Nuages gris, S 199
Liszt – La gondola lugubre, S 200/1
Wagner-Liszt – Isoldens Liebestod - Schlußszene aus Richard Wagners ‘Tristan und Isolde’, S 447
Piazzolla, arr. MacGregor – Four Tangos

 

The Institut Français ‘It’s All About Piano!’ festival has now become an established part of the London musical calendar. Any excuse to visit the institute is always welcome for me: one of the few places I know in London where I can drink decent wine at a reasonable price; I also get to practise a little of my French too. This weekend, though, is by any standards quite an undertaking; I wish my schedule had permitted me to attend more. As it was, I saw the opening film and opening concert, both of which gave me pleasure and food for thought.

 

First, I saw Raphaëlle Aellig Régnier’s 2013 film, Le Temps dérobé (translated, or perhaps better, very freely rendered, into English as Behind the Veil). The pianist Alexandre Tharaud talks about his travelling life and his concert routine, and we observe him on tour. There are a few snatches of music from Bach to Stravinsky but the performances are not in themselves the thing; there is no complete performance (although there is, apparently, on the DVD version: Mozart’s KV 488). We hear so much in general about the travails of a performing artist’s travelling life that we almost become inured to them; not here, for the pain as well as the pleasure readily comes through. Tharaud speaks frankly about the loneliness of touring, which might be fine for a twenty-year-old, but becomes more testing as an artists ages. (Not, of course, that he is old!) He speaks about his dislike of his body, his arms in particular, which perhaps surprises the viewer, since the pianist is certainly loved by the camera; Tharaud, however, tells us that he has learned to live with that and indeed to harness it. Collaborations with artists such as Jean-Guihen Queyras, Bernard Labadie, and the composer, Gérard Pesson are witnessed, as well as that ultimate musical-heroic achievement, the solo piano recital. (Yes, I know many will disagree, but you will not convince me otherwise.) The interest and delight Tharaud takes in the wizardry of his piano tuner is especially winning – and informative. Régnier’s film-making captures the pianist both as an object, willing or otherwise, and as an initiator.

The first recital of the weekend was given by Joanna MacGregor. She had been asked to include Satie, it being the composer’s 150^th anniversary and clearly relished the opportunity to do so. If MacGregor is in her element with Satie, I admit that I am much less so. My problem with music that is primarily conceptual, indeed shouts itself to be so, even if that shout be a nonchalant one, remains. The Gnossiennes, three of them, sounded genuinely charming, mystical even, imbued with intriguing, even incongruous, hints of Eastern Europe. Sports et divertissements: well, the madcap, cinematic sketches were diverting, but I should not have wished to hear any more. MacGregor’s performance, as well as her engaging spoken introduction, could not be faulted. Perhaps the fault, such as it is, lies with me. I simply do not listen in the way Satie seems to want; or maybe the problem is that he does not want anything at all. Answers on a Parisian postcard, please.

 

 

We had heard, preceding the Satie pieces, the first six of Ligeti’s near-miraculous ‘opus one’, his Musica ricercata. How wonderfully inventive they are, even if they sound much more ‘like’ their influences than the ‘mature’ composer. This is process music to which I can relate, and indeed to which anyone, I think, can relate, intellectually and emotionally. MacGregor’s command of the keyboard, of Ligeti’s range of styles, of the humour of these pieces had me longing for more. I hope I shall have the opportunity to hear her play the whole set.

 

I was not entirely sure quite what the Liszt works were doing in the programme, not that I minded. Nuages gris sounded beautiful, all the more so for its lightly-worn depression. Liszt’s imagination in these late works: what can one say that has not been said before? They remain as extraordinary in their crafting, their bitterness, their radicalism as they ever were. So Nuages gris, which threatens to go beyond Debussy and Bartók avant la lettre, sounded here. The first Lugubre gondola was taken lighter, more swiftly than I can recall. It made me think I had perhaps made too much of a meal out of it myself. It is certainly not how I should always want to hear it, but the voice from the water spoke as alluringly as, if less Romantically than, I can recall. Liszt’s transcription of the so-called Liebestod – Liszt’s doing, I am afraid, that troublesome title for Isoldes Verklärung – from Tristan und Isolde was somewhat let down by some surprising technical slips. It was, though, perhaps the most radical of MacGregor’s performances: Wagner heard more as Satie than as Liszt, or so it sounded to me. Again, I should not always wish to hear it like this; in context, however, and without didactic fanfare, it intrigued.

 

MacGregor sounded much more at home, immediately, in her own transcriptions of Piazzolla Tangos. I am afraid I do not know which they were, since they were not listed in the programme, and I am anything but an expert in this repertoire. What I can say is that colour, harmony, and rhythm moved, now slinky, now more sexually aggressive, in her interpretations as if they were one. Indeed, the performances did not really sound like ‘interpretations’ at all, so faithful and yet so free did they sound. MacGregor added another as an encore, lapped up by an appreciative audience.

 

 

Tharaud/LPO/Nézet-Séguin - Poulenc and Prokofiev, 23 October 2013

Royal Festival Hall

Poulenc – Piano Concerto

Prokofiev – Symphony no.7 in C-sharp minor, op.131
Poulenc – Stabat mater

Alexandre Tharaud (piano)

Kate Royal (soprano)

London Philharmonic Choir

Yannick Nézet-Séguin (conductor)

 

 

None of these works is over-exposed in the concert hall, though Prokofiev’s Seventh Symphony perhaps comes closer to regular performance. It was only really in Poulenc’s Stabat mater, however, that the performance made a relatively strong case for the work in question.

 

Poulenc’s Piano Concerto is certainly a work that needs an excellent case to be made for it. Here it sounded disjointed and often somewhat lacklustre; indeed, there was an air, whether accurate or otherwise, of under-rehearsal to the performance that emerged. Whilst one could sense an attempt at ‘authentic’ orchestral sonority – whether one really wants that somewhat watery early-twentieth century string sound is another matter – the first movement lacked a sense of overall sweep and was also disfigured by too many orchestral fluffs. Balances were often peculiar too, for no apparent reason. Perhaps an understandable desire on Yannick Nézet-Séguin’s part to avoid sentimentalism had shaded too far into brusqueness. Alexandre Tharaud’s somewhat self-effacing account of the piano part imparted a fluency not always present elsewhere. Certain passages sounded comfortingly Ravel-like, though this is hardly a work to place in such exalted company. The slow movement was more settled: partly a matter of the material, but also of the performance itself. Tharaud offered some gorgeous piano tone to float above the orchestral cushion, but again the LPO’s performance was far from flawless. Quite what the musical connections are between the contrasting material here continues to elude me, but that is either my fault or the composer’s. The succession of melodies was cherished in the finale, probably the strongest section of the performance, and the ending proved splendidly deadpan.

 

Prokofiev’s symphony opened in gravely beautiful fashion, though I could not help but wonder whether Nézet-Séguin’s first-movement tempo was a little fast for Moderato. The LPO seemed more at ease, though there remained cases of tentative playing. An ‘heroic’ idiom familiar from the Fifth Symphony still registered, albeit, rightly so, in more ambivalent fashion, the disquiet of the toyshop equally apparent. Waltz rhythms proved nicely balletic in the scherzo. Unfortunately, the performance seemed rather to lose its way, continuity being lost. Nézet-Séguin made partial amends with a relatively frenzied orchestral climax; the problem remained, however, that it was not quite clear where it had come from. The slow movement, though, was handled in loving fashion, its songfulness imbued with a sense of drama that harked back to its origins in incidental music for Eugene Onegin. A ghost from the Fifth Symphony again haunted the finale, as did reminiscences of Prokofiev’s ballet writing, Nézet-Séguin opted for the original ending, returning us to the mood of the opening, albeit somewhat darkened. Even if the performance as a whole had not lived up to expectations, a properly unsettled mood was engendered at the close.

 

The London Philharmonic Choir did Poulenc’s Stabat mater proud. Indeed, one sensed that Nézet-Séguin’s roots in choral conducting generally lifted the level of performance. Though the choir brought out echoes of Fauré in the opening chorus, there was no mistaking the composer’s individual, if synthetic, voice. Stravinskian echoes (Œdipus Rex) resounded in the orchestra, yet the mood was overwhelmingly one of serenity. Nézet-Séguin highlighted the neo-Baroque dotted rhythms in ‘Fac ut portem’ to telling effect. Choral fury was heard in the ‘Cujus animam gementem,’ but some of the most touching moments were to be found in Poulenc’s a cappella writing, for instance in ‘O quam tristis’ and ‘Fac ut ardeat’. Some of the composer’s response to the text strikes me as peculiar, if not quite on the surreal level of Rossini’s; nevertheless, the performers responded in kind, even if that response necessarily jarred somewhat with the text. Kate Royal sang in an attractive-enough, generically ‘operatic’ fashion; alas, it was well-nigh impossible to discern all but the occasional word of what she sang. There was certainly an embarrassing contrast with the diction of the choir. It was a serious blemish, but ultimately there remained much to admire in the performance as a whole.

Alexandre Tharaud - Scarlatti, Chopin, and Liszt, 15 February 2012

Wigmore Hall

Scarlatti – Sonata in D minor, Kk 64
Sonata in D minor, Kk 9
Sonata in C major, Kk 72
Sonata in C major, Kk 132
Sonata in D major, Kk 29
Sonata in E major, Kk 380
Sonata in A minor, Kk 3
Sonata in C major, Kk 514
Sonata in F minor, Kk 481
Sonata in D minor, Kk 141
Chopin – Piano Sonata no.2 in B-flat minor, op.35
Liszt – Funérailles, S 173/7


This proved a surprisingly mixed recital, the surprise lying for the most part in what came off best. On the basis of Alexandre Tharaud’s wonderful Couperin and Rameau, I had lazily expected that Scarlatti would fare equally well. Scarlatti’s music is of course different in almost every respect, and it was only at the end of the first half that Tharaud’s performances really caught fire, a good number of the earlier sonatas having proved frustratingly prosaic. Moreover, I had not expected that some of the most impressive pianism and musicianship would come in the music of Liszt.

Scarlatti first. As a schoolboy I played a good number of his sonatas, not least because they tended to crop up as alternatives to the more ‘difficult’ works by Bach in the Baroque lists for Associated Board exams. It was not really until I also took up the organ and became truly besotted with Bach that I persuaded my teacher that I should really have the chance to explore Bach on the piano. For children, the attractions of Scarlatti are many: rhythm, ‘Spanish’ colour, technical challenges that can generally be surmounted with a bit of hard work, and so on; one tends to assimilate him, consciously or otherwise, into a semi-alternative view of piano-history to the solidly Teutonic. In that respect, I was intrigued to hear what would be made of the juxtaposition with Chopin’s keyboard poetry, though more was offered in theory than reality. Tharaud’s lack of exaggeration in many of the sonatas was welcome; for instance the willingness only to hint at the Hispanic elements – guitars strumming, mordants and some of the harmonies – in the first sonata, Kk 64, though but there were times when I longed for a broader expressive range. Scarlatti as precursor of Chopin and Bartók, amongst others, might have been more apparent. There was a beautifully dreamy opening to the second of the D minor sonatas, Kk 9, but it suffered from a loss of momentum in the material that followed, meandering rather than directed. Kk 72 and Kk 29 were performed in virtuoso moto perpetuo mode; I could not help wishing that Tharaud would allow them to yield, if only a little, and there was occasional clumsiness too, especially in the former. There is more to this music than he allowed there, as some delicate shading in Kk 132 attested. Even in that case, however, more might well have been made of Scarlatti’s dissonances and other harmonic surprises.

A more generous palette was employed in Kk 380, whilst abrupt contrasts and extraordinary chromaticism were clearly relished in an impressive account of Kk 3. Kk 514 was somewhat on the brittle side, however: yes, there is an undeniable percussive element to the music, but there are also melodic phrases to be shaped. The final two sonatas received what were perhaps the best performances. Kk 481, in F minor, received a sensitive reading, showing Tharaud perfectly capable of cantabile tone and a recognisably pianistic touch; it was just a pity that they had not been more readily on offer earlier. There was a more pianistic sensibility to the closing D minor sonata, Kk 141, too; had Tharaud perhaps been a little too eager to imitate the harpsichord? It is difficult to say, but if so, it had not really worked. The sonata’s opening theme was an especial highlight, almost Lisztian in the sense of the first Mephisto Waltz. Fierce ‘Spanish’ repeated strumming notes opened an equally impressive second section.

The second Chopin sonata also took a long time to catch fire. Indeed, the first two movements proved disappointing. The first movement progressed from phrase to phrase in alarmingly four-square fashion, exhibiting little sign of any grander sweep. Weighting of chords could be heavy-handed too, sounding closer to Rachmaninov than Chopin. The second movement tended to grimace rather than to rage, whilst its trio material emerged in distended fashion, again largely a consequence of proceeding from phrase to phrase, even beat to beat. Harmonic rhythm was sadly lacking. The Funeral March, however, sounded on quite a different level. It was given a straightforward, unaffected performance, in which Chopin’s line was permitted magically to reveal itself. The cantilena of the second subject was sensitively, movingly shaped: quite absorbing. Chopin’s finale came across with a true sense of its weird, disorienting experimentalism.

Liszt was represented by Funérailles. Tharaud’s opening bars clearly meant business, seemingly invigorated by the success of the latter part of the Chopin sonata. They truly thundered, both as true piano music and telling of something beyond the concert hall: Liszt’s – and a revolution’s – grief. As the piece progressed, echoes of Chopin’s funeral march became more pronounced, not just in the obvious sense of ‘likeness’ but in their generative function for Liszt’s form, actually conveyed more tellingly, more dramatically, than the ‘original’. Again, the contrasting cantilena was beautifully handled. It was tempting to wish that, in the light of this performance, Tharaud would return to Scarlatti and see whether more might be done with his music now.

The recital was being recorded, I assume for Wigmore Hall Live.

Jean-Guihen Queyras/Alexandre Tharaud, Wigmore Hall, 27 April 2009

Wigmore Hall

Webern – Three Little Pieces, op.11
Brahms – Sonata for cello and piano no.1 in E minor, op.38
Berg – Four Pieces for clarinet and piano, op.5 (arr. for cello and piano)
Debussy – La plus que lente (arr. for cello and piano by Léon Roques)
Debussy – Sonata for cello and piano in D minor

Jean-Guihen Queyras (cello)
Alexandre Tharaud (piano)

This enterprising programme opened with an outstanding performance of Webern’s Op.11 Pieces. Absolutely every note told, almost – perhaps not even ‘almost’ – a melody in itself, yet never merely pointillistic; connections told equally. The rarity of the air breathed in the opening movement not only contrasted with but prepared the way for the violent beauty of the ensuing Sehr bewegt, which in turn brought us to the threshold of that extraordinary yearning intensity which characterises the final piece, its marking, Äußerst ruhig, almost as beautiful as the music itself. The final cello note was of truly unearthly beauty, leading us straight into the first Brahms cello sonata. Webern’s work proved not only a gem in itself but a prologue to Brahms’s sonata, making us listen once again to every note and to the connections between them and equally compelling us to sense the precariousness of Brahmsian tonality.

The opening movement of the Brahms was often understated though never reticent; the emotional impact of certain key moments was thereby allowed to register more powerfully than might have been the case with hearts fully on sleeves. An impassioned, indeed violent section in the development was a particular example of this; Webern returned, if indeed he had ever been away. This Brahms was noble, not self-pitying, modernist not comfortable. The clarity of Alexandre Tharaud’s piano playing in no way precluded a sense of mystery; it simply took such mystery to a more sophisticated level. What had begun as rather ‘French’-sounding Brahms in its tone, took on a more Romantic murmuring as we were led towards the ambiguous consolation – is it even that? – of the lullaby theme. Throughout there was an underlying menace, unease, especially from Tharaud. Jean-Guihen Queyras proved a fine partner, constantly attentive to the shifts of emphasis in the collaboration between two instrumentalists, not least when his phrases imitated yet subtly altered in retrospect those of the piano. My only real reservation lay with his fundamental tone, which could sometimes veer a little towards thinness, even rawness. I was not entirely sure, but I suspected that he might be playing on gut strings; there was certainly a suggestion of this in his playing, which could sound a touch forced at climaxes. Tharaud and Queyras adopted a sensible tempo for the Allegretto quasi menuetto; take it too fast, as happens all too often, and the shifting harmonies and rhythmic subtleties will perforce be skated over. Here we were treated to a winning, almost Schubertian lilt and grace. The trio had just the right balance of flow and hesitation. Tharaud’s expertise in Baroque repertoire made itself apparent in the fugal opening to the final Allegro. Queyras’s entry was rightly voiced as part of the overall texture rather than as a ‘solo’ voice; such a privilege had to be earned and even then would only be granted provisionally. This was an extremely troubled reading; occasionally, I wondered whether it might have yielded a touch more but perhaps that would have been to alter its character. Despite the slight lack I felt of a richer cello tone, there was a strong sense of the tragic to what remained a fine performance.

I had no reservations whatsoever concerning the performance of an arrangement (I know not by whom, but it was most convincing) of Berg’s Op.5 Pieces. From the opening bars of the first movement, we were reminded how strange Berg’s harmonies can still sound, if anything still more so than the sparer Webern, given the jostling and merging of the myriad of voices in Berg’s labyrinthine world. We stood very close to the Op.6 Orchestral Pieces. The slow insistence of the piano chords at the opening to the second piece proved interestingly reminiscent of the second of Schoenberg’s equally unusually aphoristic Op.19 Piano Pieces. Lyricism from the cello stopped short, quite rightly, from false consolation. The following piece, marked Sehr rasch, brought a wealth of tonal colours from both performers, the utmost rhythmical flexibility serving to portray a floating, indeed gravity-less world in which form is constantly re-created. Tharaud’s voicing of the piano chords in the final piece was exquisite, with a similarly subtle insistence to his performance of the second movement; Queyras’s uncertain, quasi-vocal lyricism was reminiscent of what we had heard from him there, conjuring up formal connections before our ears. A truly terrifying outburst was followed by desolate subsiding – not, however, into nothing, but into the opening of Debussy’s La plus que lente. Performed in violinist Léon Roques’s arrangement, there was an intriguing alternation between insinuating irony and something apparently more ardent, putting me a little in mind of Poulenc. Queyras’s tone here seemed a better match with the music than in the Brahms.

The final item on the programme was the Debussy cello sonata. Tharaud’s opening piano chords immediately put me in mind of the music of ‘old France,’ inciting a true sense of fantasy in Queyras’s response. Unsettling rumblings in the piano bass sparked off cello agitation, to which the instrument’s ‘natural’ lyricism attempted, albeit ever so equivocally, to respond. Debussy’s concision in this work seems to me almost as remarkable as that of Webern; that is certainly how it sounded here. The strangeness of the second movement’s opening pizzicato dance fully registered; for all Debussy’s classicism, this was modernism with a vengeance. Queyras was superbly partnered by Tharaud, able to suggest string pizzicato on the piano as if it were the easiest thing in the world. There was a wonderful give and take between the two musicians, so impressive that one almost did not notice it. Tharaud in particular imparted a clear sense of harmonic direction to the finale, absolute rhythmical precision from both players allowing full measure to the composer’s virtuosic flights of fancy.

As an encore, we were treated to the Ballabile from Poulenc’s cello sonata. This struck just the right note of exact whimsy, the contradictions in the composer’s lovable personality productively to the fore. There was exemplary clarity yet a palpably beating heart; ravishing piano tone gave way like a flash to aristocratic insouciance. Something serious, yet not too serious, lay behind this clown’s face.

This concert, broadcast live on BBC Radio 3, will be repeated next Saturday at 7 p.m.